Pittsburgh, a LetMeIn2 fan fiction
by gkmoberg1
Summary: "Pittsburgh," a story told in four short chapters, is a small detour addition to Lee Kyle's fan fic novel "Let Me In 2," occurring near the start of that story's "Chapter 8: Cherokee." "Pittsburgh" relates the events of a single evening, January 2nd 1984. Thanks to Lee Kyle for allowing me to post this, a fan fic based on his. -GK
1. Chapter 1

_When good things happen to good people, that's good._  
_When bad things happen to good people, that's bad._  
_When good things happen to bad people, that's bad._  
_When bad things happen to bad people, that's good._  
(A children's verse used to remember positive/negative outcomes for multiplication and division.)

~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Marshall-Shadeland, Pittsburgh, PA.  
January 2nd, 1984.

7:30pm

"Hello?" a thin lone voice faintly rang down the otherwise quiet street.

Randy shivered on his parent's front porch in the evening's darkness. At the far end of the block, opposite from where the thin voice had faintly come, his parent's aged Pontiac turned the corner to the right. A trailing snake of grey exhaust rolled after it before dissipating. They would be gone for hours, off to see his aunt.

He viewed the tired, monotonous scene of Woodland Avenue. Street lights on the corners, houselights and the occasional porch light lit the street for him. Nearly identical two story wooden houses, each with their own porch and off centered steps, sat shoulder to shoulder, right up to the sidewalk on both sides of the street. No space was left for anything except sidewalk, curb and telephone poles. Everything here was aging, fading, decaying. The winter grime and the peeling paint made it look all the worse.

He waited, flexing his toes inside his Keds in an attempt to keep warm.

Most of the house porches were decorated with strings of Christmas lights. These drifted to and fro in the occasional light breeze. Only a few were lit. Most second floor windows held a single candle, centered on the sill within. Christmas trees were visible in some first floor family rooms.

Randy slid his hands into the front pockets of his Sears-brand jeans and crunched down the frozen steps. He stood by himself on the sidewalk, alone in the night air. Cars, none of them new, lined both sides of the street. Remnants of the scant inch of snow Pittsburgh had received covered parts of the sidewalk. Time and cold had hardened most of the snow into ice, which then had been blackened by car exhaust.

"Hello?" again drifted the same voice across the cold, crisp emptiness. This, his lonely hell, stretched to the right and left. He glanced back behind at his own house, but the porch was empty and the front door was shut.

A renewed breeze stung at his face and gave the hanging Christmas light strands some movement. As Randy waited for Dale to show up, a lone wind chime gave off a series of brittle notes in the cold air. He thought about going back inside.

A car, a heavy American sedan, turned the corner and moved up the street.

He counted off his irritations with Dale. Randy almost wanted the guy not to show up. Three years ago they had been best friends. High school had been a blast and they had daily hung together. Mike and Robert had been part of the crew then. At least they were still cool. These days Dale was a pain to be around – if you could find him.

"Hello?" rang the voice yet again, quietly. This time he caught a movement, however slight, about four or five houses away. Somebody, a neighbor he did not know, standing on a front porch on his side of the street was looking into a picture window and tapping at it lightly. The angle of looking through the consecutive porches, each draped with their holiday lights and abandoned plant hangers, made it difficult to see who it was.

There remained no sign of Dale.

He turned and climbed back up onto his own porch. The heavy sedan chugged by as he watched distractedly. The leaded gasoline engine thudded and the frozen street surface caused the Lincoln's rumble to vibrate the cold scene all that much more. The exhaust hung in the air. It smelled different than the exhaust of the newer unleaded fuels. This smell was stronger, more caustic.

Dale, meanwhile, drove one of the Renault Le Car imports that had started to show up. The thing was a joke as far as Randy was concerned. But Dale had bought it with his parent's help and, well, Dale now had a car whereas he didn't.

The sedan rolled up past the porch where the unknown neighbor was standing by the picture window.

"Idiot," he announced into the night. Dale was late - yet again. No surprise. How could he and the others put together a band and make some money if their drummer was forever someplace else? He and Dale were to work out some of the parts for _Daddy Don't Live Here Anymore_. It was yet another awesome Donnie Iris song; the guy was a genius.

"Anybody?" drifted his way, the voice trailing off to a whispered cry. It was a girl's voice. The resignation was clear. He realized he should be able to see her and tried to peer through the darkness and the intervening porch clutter. He caught the movement of her turning and sitting down into a porch chair. A hood covered over her head and face, and as he watched her head drooped in defeat. He had no idea who she was. In fact he didn't know anyone that far up the street.

What annoyed Randy more than Dale's lateness was his choosing the Le Car. The tinfoil car. The dude should have bought the AMC Gremlin. Randy had found it a couple streets over, marked for sale at a good price. But the Gremlin was white and Dale wanted red, so Dale – Idiot Dale - had bought the pathetic Le Car.

"Hi?" came the girl's voice, louder. This time it sounded more hopeful yet without confidence. Randy looked. The girl had risen from her chair and was facing him directly, leaning on her porch railing. He could make her out only by silhouette. A porch light, turned on some distance behind her, allowed him to see the form of her shoulders, arms and head.

"Uh, hi," he replied, still not recognizing her.

"I'm locked out," she said after a pause.

He looked at her silhouetted form without much of any thought. His mind was a mosaic of thoughts with nothing connecting: A strange girl, No Dale, Parents away for the evening, their endless fussing over Aunt Carol's birthday, His lack of a job, His sister upstairs trying to ignore the world.

"Can you help me?" she continued when he didn't respond.

"Uh, yeh."

She took the steps down from her porch and headed towards him. This is going to be awkward, he thought. Over the blackened snow she steadily made her way to him. But as she got closer he saw she was barefoot. No socks. No shoes. Dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and skirt, she came into the light of his porch and stopped. With eyes that looked pained she squinted up at him and whispered in a flat voice. "You're going to think I'm stupid."

"Yeh, stupid," he agreed. "But you're talking to King Stupid, so don't think you're anything special."

That got a smile from her. She put a hand on the railing and stepped up onto the porch. The smile, although brief, was pretty on her face.

She ended up directly below the light embedded in the porch ceiling. The light put her face, cloaked by her sweatshirt hood, back into shadow. Yet he could tell she was looking away, avoiding his eyes.

She was shorter than him. If she was a teenager, it was but barely.

"Uh, you better come in," he decided, staring at her bare feet.

Sheesh, he thought, no way he'd be as calm as her, walking barefoot down the sidewalk like that.

"You have to invite me in." She said. He noticed how the lower part of her face tensed. There was an imploring quality to her tone. "You have to say it: you can come in."

# # #


	2. Chapter 2

_In ten minutes they pulled into a driveway belonging to a small, single-story home. "You have to say I can come in," Abby suddenly piped up. "You have to say it: you can come in."_

_The driver looked puzzled, but he acceded to Abby's request: "You can come in," he said._

_[ Kyle, Lee. __'Chapter 2: Denver.' _Let Me In 2. FanFiction Net (2011) ]

~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Marshall-Shadeland, Pittsburgh, PA.  
January 2nd, 1984.

7:43pm

"You can use the phone in the kitchen."

He had allowed her in. He couldn't very well turn away a neighbor, despite their never having met. Dad would box his ears! He did not want to handle dad were he to find that his son had turned away a girl who had neither a coat nor shoes and was locked out of her house.

Yet he didn't want her here. She was going to be in the way. The practice needed to happen _tonight_.

He reached around her brusquely and shut the front door.

"Oh, ok. Thanks," she said with a stolid countenance. Standing barefoot on the circular braided rug inside the front door, her head slightly tilted and her eyes wandering the interior, he watched as she took in the atmosphere of his house, seemingly smelling, hearing and sensing all at the same time.

She trailed behind him through the house's small interior. He was not sure what to do. Hopefully she would be gone soon. The basement needed to be set up. If Dale were here, well, right, this wouldn't be a problem.

Arriving at the phone, mounted on of the wall of the kitchen, he turned to her. The house's lighting revealed she had a quiet comeliness. The manner by which the hood and her hair wrapped her face plus the shape of her eyes caught his attention. He wanted to look at those eyes but without her knowing.

He decided they betrayed uneasiness. In turn they made him uneasy too. Initially they were focused on him but then moved away. They continued to take in his house, his kitchen. Yet they were saying something else. He could not yet interpret what the emotion might be. Perhaps it was fear – fear of being in a stranger's house or having to resolve being locked out and thus at the mercy of someone she didn't know. That seemed likely but even so it didn't fit the look on her face.

A series of thumps above them heightened the uneasiness. It was his sister Amy moving about her room. His visitor stood at the entrance to the kitchen and warily eyed the ceiling. Then she glanced back at him, almost fearful.

"I better go."

"No. Stay." He made sure to catch her eye before continuing. "You can use the phone." He moved passed her and into the front room so as to give her some space. Turning, he watched as she lifted the almond colored receiver from its holder. Its height on the wall was just an inch or two above her head.

He realized his action was cutting off her line of escape. Not that she needed one. But if she did, he was now in the way. Perhaps she perceived the same thing? No, her face continued the same steady look. Her eyes alternated between him and the ceiling. Again he felt she was sensing the house.

Don't parents, he wondered, tell their kids not to go into stranger's houses?

Better yet: don't parents tell their kids not to allow strangers in? Yes, and that was his mistake, he decided.

"Thanks," she said and turned to one side focusing now upon the phone in her hand. The phone's long cord, dangling to her bare ankles, swung with her movement.

While she dialed he returned to the front door. He felt a relief in not being near her. Peering out, he saw no sign of Dale. Randy decided to open the door and leave it ajar in hopes he might yet show up.

The sound of the rotary action of the kitchen phone stopped. He stood by the front door looking through its window. Another car drove by but without slowing down. He needed Dale to be here.

Realizing the number of strokes she had dialed didn't make sense, he left the door and went back to see what she was doing. She was probably stealing something in the kitchen.

"No one is answering," she said as he approached. Her expression was not what he expected. She reached and put the phone back into its wall cradle. He wondered why she didn't look dejected. Rather she made her statement and did so without any emotional accompaniment. It crossed his mind that something else might be going on. Perhaps she is running away and so doesn't really want to talk to her parents. Yet, he decided, if she were running away or was a runaway something as obvious as shoes wouldn't have been forgotten.

No, she was locked out. Clearly not very smart. Pretty… pathetic. He couldn't let this go and decided to dig a little bit.

"So, what happened... that you got locked out?" He enjoyed adding a condescending edge to his voice.

"I- I was sleeping. I-" She was interrupted by more noise from above. It was nothing, simply Amy shutting a drawer; however, it was somehow putting this girl in distress. "When I got up it was dark and I didn't see or hear anyone," she continued, looking back to him. "I ended up out front looking for them. I didn't mean it?" She scrunched up her face as she ended with the question.

He stared at her hard. So she had wandered outdoors by herself and allowed the door to close behind her. He was not sure he wanted to believe her. If she had a name it had better be Freak.

She met the challenge of his stare. Her face fell back to the prior plain expression and she glared back. Anew he took in her stance and demeanor. He had been wrong about interpreting her as being uneasy. Only in the moments of her reacting to Amy's noises was she actually uneasy. For as strange as this girl was and as stupid as her story was, what she projected was confidence. Somehow this entire encounter was not upsetting to her in the manner he kept thinking it should be.

"I can go, if you want."

"I need to set up things in the basement," he informed her, ignoring her statement. "We can try the phone again in a couple minutes." She nodded.

He moved to the basement door and opened it. Freak followed along quietly.

The light switch for the basement was on the wall inside the entry. He flipped it on as he stepped through and started down the stairs. The wood steps, descending a dozen or so treads to the cement basement floor and flanked on one side by the concrete wall of the house foundation, were well worn. Randy heard her on the steps as she started down behind him, heard the creak of the worn railing as her hand moved along it. But then he was distracted by the scattered band equipment. The drum kit was assembled but the guitars were still crated, following last night's New Year's Eve event. He needed to unpack these, find the cords and return the amps to the positions they used here for practicing.

The guitar cases were easy to lift and swing to their spots. He grabbed the mic stands and their bases and hauled them into the center of the room. Next he pulled the packing box away from the basement's rear bulkhead entrance and opened the cardboard flaps. All the loose items were inside.

Randy's head danced with images of last night. He, Dale, Joe and Sam had played here in the basement many times. But last night was the first time they had tried it together, on stage, for real. The moment had been electrifying. Suddenly the talk of becoming a band was serious. The other kids at the club had been excited by their songs. When they had finished everyone was jumping around, cheering for them, asking when they were going to do it again. Even Cassandra, with her beautiful eyes, had come over and told him how great they sounded. She was the last person he figured would pay him a compliment. However amidst all the noise she had been right up next to him, smiling and yelling encouragement in his ear. That moment had made the entire evening worth it. He had experienced a rush of excitement in having her so close to him, in her rising up onto tip-toe so as to get close. At midnight, that magical moment when the world ticked over into 1984, he searched for her, hoping for a little bit more of the impossible. But he couldn't find her.

A minute later, with his hands full of rolled cables, he came back to the present. He realized his little guest had not made a sound. He had forgotten about her. Randy glanced back at the stairs, some ten feet away. She was there, watching him intently. Her dirty bare feet stood on different stair treads. The hood of her sweatshirt was still worn over her head yet he could see her face. It was clear she had been there for a while, standing motionless in a crouch, two steps down from the top. Suddenly all his focus was on her. The Peter Frampton tune they had sung last night and that had been replaying in his head came to an abrupt halt. There was nothing but silence. She locked eyes with him, her face set in a very determined look. Then one arm began to reach upwards along the wall. Between the two of them, it was the only movement. Their eyes remained locked; her intensity demanded it. His mind raced ahead and realized where her hand was going: she was going to turn off the light.

"_Don't!_" he barked at her. Freak's hand stopped. It pressed against the cement wall behind her and her fingers splayed along its roughness. She didn't break eye contact with him. All he could see were those eyes. Those eyes. Yes it was confidence - a grim, cold confidence - they were projecting. He did not understand what her motivations might be or if he was right in suspecting her intention. But the hairs on the nape of his neck rose and a twinge crossed his chest from shoulder to shoulder. Amy was two floors about him, out of earshot. Nobody else was in the house. He suddenly grasped he was alone, isolated, with this girl between him and any escape.

Slowly, deliberately, her hand renewed its course, upwards.

Without warning a loud crack erupted above them. They heard the front door strike the wall as it was flung fully open. A voice boomed "Hey, hey, hey, hey!" Four loud steps swept over Randy's head and a presence rounded the corner into the basement entry. The girl flinched and moved down a step. "Woah!" announced the newcomer, coming to a halt, "Who do we have here?"

# # #


	3. Chapter 3

Pittsburgh, Part Three

Marshall-Shadeland, Pittsburgh, PA.  
January 2th, 1984.

7:49pm

Dale stood atop of the basement stairwell, Randy at the bottom. The two nineteen year olds were of similar build. Both were of average height and weight. Both had the same style of shoulder length wavy black hair. When viewed from a distance, either could be mistaken for the other.

Between them the barefoot girl wavered against the basement wall and looked up at Dale. Her presence, a surprise, had brought him to a halt. He had been about to bound down and to join Randy in the prep work and eventual practicing.

Instead, Dale felt an unsettled tension bordering on explosive. He grasped at figuring out what was going on. She looked small standing against the wall four steps down from him. However despite her comparatively slight form, her dirty bare feet along with her stance and expression presented like a cornered animal.

With suspicion he turned his attention to Randy. Had Randy done something to her? Had- had Randy taken her shoes?! Nobody spoke. His friend stood near the bottom of the stairs, arms full of cables. Dressed in his usual, a white t-shirt with _Four Star Pizza_ emblazoned across the chest, Randy's face was twisted in a look that expressed a mix of emotions. Randy looked irritated, that was clear, but he was often this way. Dale knew the look very well. However was there -in addition- an expression of fear?

Seconds ticked by and as the tension released towards awkwardness Dale realized Randy was not going to answer him. Neither was the girl. Randy was not going to because he couldn't, Dale guessed. This was typical Randy. He, who could play guitar so well and had a voice capable of catching a room's attention, always stumbled over social interactions. Randy wasn't going to answer him because most likely he had never asked this girl her name. He simply did not know.

Dale sighed. He didn't know how this moment had developed, but however this barefoot girl had come to be standing here on these stairs, it was through something unexpected. Dale certainly didn't know her, and he was familiar enough with Randy to know she was indeed somebody new. She might be an acquaintance of Randy's younger sister Amy, but that seemed unlikely. If so, she would be off with Amy and not here on the basement stairs. It didn't make sense. Neither did the tension. Likely, Randy had been in the process of something else, something that had put such uneasiness into the air. Yet Dale could not fathom what that might be. He hoped it wasn't worse than Randy's normal rudeness. Randy's limitations were a friction everyone in their circle had to deal with.

Dale squatted and then dropped his legs onto the stair treads in front of him. This took away the height advantage and now his eyes met nearly level with hers.

"Hi, I'm Dale," he said, trying to sound friendly.

"Abby," the girl responded.

"Well, pleased to meet you." A nod in reply made him smile. Dale lived to be with people. A stranger was merely a friend yet to be made. The exchange seemed to disarm her. The sense of an impending explosion, the tenseness that had hung in the air, eased back a notch.

"Dale!" interjected Randy loudly from the base of the stairs. The tension returned. Randy was glaring up the stairwell at him. "About time. About time!"

Dale rolled his eyes at Abby. "What?" he said to Randy without looking away from her. "I came straight from work. Told you I was off at seven thirty. Right?" _Give it a rest_ he wanted to add, but didn't. Dale looked down at his friend.

"No, I mean _her_," Randy responded, punctuating this with a wild swing of cables.

This was a tactic Randy's commonly used. Dale knew Randy's "About time!" exclamations regarded the punctuality of his arrival. If Dale was getting off work at seven thirty, then Randy could be expected to make the jump that Dale would be at the basement *at* seven thirty. Ridiculous, of course. Yet when this was brought up, as he had just done, Randy would shift the conversation and frustration on to something else. In this case, Randy was redirecting all towards Abby.

Dale gave her a comical look, trying to relieve the situation. "Ooooh, I seeeee." And then winked at her. "Riiiiiight." He was trying his best to disarm things but could tell he was failing. The tension remained like a lightning bolt about to strike. She turned in a cat-like manner, focusing on Randy, her posture and balance changing.

"She's locked out," Randy blurted.

"Ouch, sorry," Dale said. He added "Anything I can do?"

"No," she said flatly, not looking back.

"Take her back up to the phone and have her retry her parents. Better yet, see that you dump her out on the front porch."

A provoked look overran her. Rather than complying, she moved down the stairs. Her every move was defiant, smooth and strong. Dale was surprised to see Randy back off as Abby approached. This is … different, he thought. As Dale descended behind her, his footfalls contrasted loudly to her barefoot touches. He became fascinated by Randy's behavior. Clearly Randy was nervous to be close to Abby. The scowl on his face reinforced this. It was a look not lost on her.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Dale stepped passed Abby. She barely came up to his chest. "What's going on, Randy?" Abby couldn't be more than fourteen. She was nothing to be frightened about.

"Her." Randy responded, refusing to look at him.

"Well, how did she get here? Did you let her in?"

"Yes, but only to use the phone."

Dale looked back at Abby. She had moved back up the stairs a couple of steps and was quietly watching them from the railing. She hardly looked dangerous – or so he wanted to think. But instead Dale found himself pondering how she had the two of them cut off from the rest of the house. He didn't like this; things felt different now that he was down in the basement. There was an eeriness, a chill, he had not anticipated.

"Okay… let's try something." Dale suggested, moving to a different tact at breaking the ice. "Let's start with a bit from that Crack The Sky song you had us playing last week." He hoped that pulling something from Randy's interest list might calm him. "And let's put you on drums and I'll do the guitar." This was met, at last, with a smile from Randy. Dale was relieved to see the tension ebb. Randy forever wanted to be on drums. Dale quickly gave him a primer on how approach playing the song.

"Is this going to be loud?" asked Abby.

"No," Dale responded. "He's going to use a brush technique on the snare. It won't be loud. I'll play the acoustic. Is that okay?" He looked at her, genuinely interested to know.

"Okay."

"Or you can wait upstairs," added Randy.

Dale shot a look at Randy and then said "How about if you be our audience Abby, okay?"

She nodded and stayed where she was, leaning on the railing.

With Randy having settled into the brush stroke, Dale took a seat on a stool between them.

"This is called A Night on the Town," he said to her. "It's kinda catchy. Maybe you'll like it too. Do you know Crack The Sky?"

"No."

"Not a problem. Give this a listen and let me know what you think. Okay?"

"Okay."

"But you have to be honest with me. And please, uh, I'm not our group's vocalist - he is." Dale added, referring back to Randy. She nodded without looking away from him.

Starting with a light strum, Dale liked how the guitar's sound filled the air, brushing things away. He started off the song, his voice a little nervous at first.

_A night, on the town with you,  
We'll start for dinner here, it's tacos for two.  
A little candlelight and a lot of cheer,  
Well, I'll help you clear this mess up,  
Then we're outa here._

Abby gave Dale a wan smile and he returned it.

_Well, gee, you look swell, and I like your cologne.  
And it's such a nice night, I'm glad we're alone.  
How 'bout a movie, a drink or a dance?  
Well my funds are kinda low, but I'm high on romance._

For the first time since having arrived Dale felt the room was freeing from its earlier tension. Abby continued to watch with a bemused look as he went into the chorus. He almost forgot to keep singing, distracted by the chord pattern change. He barely knew this song's guitar part.

_And I knew you'd be the kind of girl I'd love to spend my time with.  
From the moment that we met I think we knew,  
That nothing could be better, than the time we spend together.  
And as long as it's forever, there'll be plenty to do._

That felt good, he thought. Time for the second verse.

_Well let's take a subway and get off at Times Square…_

But he was getting the chords wrong.

"No!" interjected Randy, adding a sudden wallop on the snare drum and high hat simultaneously. Abby flinched. So too did Dale. And in that moment Dale realized Randy had noticed and would likely use it again on Abby.

"Come on Randy, give me a break, I'm just learning this one."

"It's in D-major. I don't know what you're doing but it's D-Major, not whatever you're trying to do."

"I don't want to be here anymore," said Abby. Neither did Dale, and he let her know with a sympathetic look.

As so often he did with Randy, Dale brushed off the effrontery and tried a different approach. Reaching into the packing box on the floor, he spotted and lifted out one of the microphones. He plugged it into their tape deck.

"Okay, let me try it again," he said to Randy. "I'll be a little slower. Ready?"

He had been planning on snapping the mic into a stand but it was out of reach. Hoping against hope for a friendlier outcome, he held the microphone out to Abby and flicked it on.

"Here, you hold onto this gently and I'll play this one bit again." As she hesitantly took it from Dale through the open railing, he continued, "I'll run you home or wherever you want to go right after this. Okay?"

This seemed to be what she wanted to hear. She nodded and there was a lift to her that he took to mean he was going in the right direction.

"Hey, good," he encouraged. A feeling of relief passed between them; an escape from the basement was soon at hand.

"Okay, okay, hold it like this…" and he repositioned it in her hands. It was the first time they had touched and he noticed how cool her hands felt. He wondered, almost aloud, how long had Randy left her out in the cold? He felt he was pushing to have her do this, but his intention was to cheer her up, maybe even Randy, even if only a little.

"What would be fantastic is that as I sing the part again, go ahead and add a _doo-whop_ or _hmm-mm-mm_ if you can." He was having trouble with her eyes. Were they stressed, angry, aggrieved? He couldn't tell. "We'll add it to the master recording. Okay? Hey…" he tried a smile and got a glimmer of one back from her. "This is just for fun."

He tried a couple of strums on the acoustic to get himself back into the song's rhythm. Behind him Randy gently fell into the same rhythm and followed along. Being aware of her discomfort Dale decided to keep it short. He started to sing, skipping the verse and simply going for the chorus.

"_Well gee you look swell, and I like your cologne_"

Dale gave her his best encouraging smile and as he watched she tentatively tried an "oo-oooh" into the mic.

"_And it's such a nice night, I'm glad we're alone."_

And then again she sang "oo-oooh" her eyes looking at his and his alone.

"_How about a movie, a drink or a dance?_

_Well my money's kinda low but I'm high on romance."_

His strumming ended with a couple off-beat trills. He felt he had done the right thing. He could tell from Abby's look that this was enough. It was unfair to keep her here in this situation. A cramp seemed to strike through her, causing her to grimace. Yes, this was far enough. Too far. Randy could take a hike if he objected, but it was time to resolve whatever needed to be done to help this locked out girl.

"Hey, that's enough." he said firmly to Randy. Turning back to Abby he added "You're a champ." He wanted to add more but she was still grimacing with one arm across her stomach.

"Randy, hey, I'm going to run her home. You want to come along?"

"No. I'm staying here."

Dale preferred that, actually. "Okay, dude, you do that. I'll be back."

"Ready?" Dale asked of Abby and saw her nodding. "Okay, great. Okay… " and he took the microphone back from her and put it on the floor.

"Hey Randy – be back." Dale realized he needed to make this escape, take her along, and hoped Randy would be in a better mood later.

"Bye, Dale," Randy announced. His exclusion of Abby was clear and intentional. It caused both Dale and Abby to turn and look at him. Randy was staring again at Abby. Something passed between them, involving a dismissive flick of Randy's hand toward her. Dale felt embarrassed; he wanted to flee, to escape. Randy mouthed single word at her, "_freak_." Dale didn't catch it, thought Randy had said something else. But she caught it and glowered back. Dale didn't know how to react. His annoyance and discomfort with Randy – especially as put to light in front this young stranger – was beyond what he could handle.

"Come on," Dale said to her quietly and encouragingly. He passed her and started up the stairs. Randy watched, still seated at the drum kit. For a moment Randy and Abby glared at each other. Then she turned and looked up at the departing figure of Dale. This seemed to give her a new strength. Her defiance at Randy changed over to a determined look as she took one step and then more, faster, up the stairs, following Dale. An enthusiasm was returning to her step as she rose. Randy heard them overhead moving across the floor and out onto the porch. Dale's footsteps were loud; hers were quick and light - overtaking. "_Good riddance!"_ Randy thought and broke into a spastic drum solo, beating out his frustrations.

# # #

A/N: Update 27-Dec-2012 to correct a good number of ambiguous pronoun references.


	4. Chapter 4

_It was time to pursue a much more basic objective: survival._

_[ Kyle, Lee. 'Chapter 8: Cherokee.' Let Me In 2. FanFiction Net (2011) ]_

_~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~_

Marshall-Shadeland, Pittsburgh, PA.  
January 4th, 1984.

1:12pm

The tape recorder Play button locked into the down position with a firm click. Instantly the speakers came to life and the tape reels started to move. The unit was capable of playing good quality stereo however this recording was low quality mono. The voice of a sprite young girl burst from the speaker, and Agent Alvirez adjusted the volume as she spoke.

"_This is the Millers. Yup, we're not answering the phone. If you want to leave a message for Amy, Randy, Richard or Susan wait for the beep. Then do your thing. Remember: say cheeeeeese!"_

The musical lilt to her voice, especially when she sang out "_Amy_," sounded out of place here in the conference room of the police station. This had until yesterday been the family's phone message. Now it was something else: evidence.

Alvirez had met Amy an hour ago at the house on Woodland Avenue, and yet he hadn't recognized her voice. The Amy he had met and from whom he had, with effort, coaxed a few words, was no longer the one who had recorded this happy salutation. He had met the darkened, shell shocked Amy. The Amy who had recorded this cheery message was lost, torn away from the innocent life where her fourteen year old life had been.

It was part of the aftermath he had to sort through.

"Amy," he had started. She had been sitting by her mother's side on the couch of the family's front room. "I know what you saw when you got to the basement. I'm not going to make you go through that again." He had waited for a response but there was nothing. "Is there anything you can add as to what might have been happening earlier? Did you hear or see anything?" She responded with a wave of her head and a whispered "No." Did you know anyone was here in the house? Even that…" "No," again. And that had been it, all he could manage from her.

The agent wondered if Owen was even aware of the living nightmare that followed behind them. It was not Owen but instead he who got to glimpse the wreckage. Not of the victims but of the survivors. The looks, the shock, the depression were things the agent had seen far too many times during his years with the Bureau. And he knew it was only a glimpse. In the coming days he would be elsewhere – back in New York and Brooklyn where things were only beginning to get exciting. But for this family, minus one, there would be no escape from the grief. Their grief would stretch out in front of them for years – probably decades.

The answering machine's beep followed a second or two later.

There was only one message.

"_Randy, this is Dale. Hey, I've come back to my house to grab a bite. Sorry dude, but I was starving. I'll get back over there in a little bit. Just let me eat something first._

"_I dropped off Abby. Lights were on at her house. I was going to wait until she got through the front door but she ran around back and, well, I couldn't see her after that. Girl needs shoes, man!_

"_Anyway, catch up with you in a few. And, oh yeh, I think I left the basement mic and tape recorder turned on. Might want to turn that off, dude. Sorry._"

A second beep marked the end of the message.

Alvirez understood it had been Dale's voice traveling up through the stairwell as he left the message that had brought Amy out of her bedroom. She had then ventured down to the basement to find out what was going on…

The recording continued after a loud pop. This time the quality was better, yet still in mono. The tape Alvirez was listening to, the master tape assembled by the Pittsburgh unit, was the assemblage of the phone message recording and then the music recording from the basement.

It started with the crumpling noise that gets picked up when mics are being handled.

"… _here, you hold onto .. [crumpling noises] .. and I'll play this one bit again. I'll run you home or wherever you want to go right after this. Ok?... Hey, good… Okay, ok, hold it like this… What would be fantastic is that as I sing the part again, go ahead and add a doo-whop or hmm-mm-mm if you can. We'll add it to the master recording. Ok? Hey, this is just for fun_."

A couple of acoustic guitar strums followed, breaking into a rhythm. Behind that a drum beat gently came into the same rhythm and followed along with the guitar. A boy's voice sang.

"_Well gee you look swell, and I like your cologne_"

And then he heard it, a shy "oo-oooh" sung into the mic.

"_And it's such a nice night, I'm glad we're alone."_

And then, yes, again, an "oo-oooh" sung by a hesitant female voice.

"_How about a movie, a drink or a dance?_

_Well my money's kinda low but I'm high on romance."_

The playing came to a faltering stop.

"_Hey, that's enough. You're a champ. … Randy, hey, I'm going to run her home. You want to come along?_"

"_No. I'm staying here_." That must be Randy, which would then mean it was Dale who was singing.

"_Okay, dude, you do that. I'll be back…. Ready? Okay, great. Okay… [crumpling noises] [clunk] Hey Randy – be back."_

"_Bye, Dale_." That was Randy, a second time. Alvirez could hear the sound of persons walking up the stairs. Randy, who must have been on the drums, played a few more beats and then toyed noisily with the sticks.

The basement tape had been copied to the master tape in its entirety. A lengthy period of silence was broken up by the occasional drumbeat or whistle. Then, a few footsteps were heard.

Detective Howard of the Pittsburgh unit leaned towards Alvirez. "Hang on through this. I left it all in for you. It gets interesting in a minute." Alvirez nodded. He was amazed that the girl's voice had been caught on tape. This was big.

The movement of a stool could be heard. Guitar strumming began, breaking into the chord pattern for _Behind Blue Eyes_. Randy began to sing, stopping occasionally to double back and repeat lines.

"The kid's good," said Howard. Alvirez had to agree.

Things came to an abrupt halt after the second time through "_But my dre-e-e-ams, they aren't as empty, [strumming] as my conscience seems to be._" A gasp marked the end of playing, along with a chirp – which was likely a noise caused by the stool.

"_Hey, how'd you get back in here?_" Randy's voice, accusingly.

Howard hit the Pause button and looked Alvirez in the eye. "Our guys have played this with headphones on. There is _no_ sound of anyone on those stairs." He hit Play.

"_You invited me in_." Alvirez couldn't believe it. It was her!

"_Yeh, but you left_."

"_I came back_."

"_What, you forget something… freak?_"

"_No, not at all_."

Silence.

"_What then?_"

"_I should say I'm sorry. But I want you to know: I'm not_."

Alvirez struggled to make sense of what followed. There was a guttural hiss that exploded and disappeared as quickly as its onset. A noise, which was rather like an impact. The stool, banging several times across the concrete floor. Rustling, rustling.

But little else.

Again, Howard's unit had retained the entire recording. Nothing had been cut out. Five minutes of silence were followed by the ring of the telephone. The ringing was at some distance from the microphone. When the machine picked up he heard Amy's message, fainter from where the mic was laying on the basement floor. Then Dale's message. At no point had he heard another noise from his target. Nothing had been said, not another movement had been captured.

But the worst part was yet to come. A minute later he heard the stairs creak. It was Amy, arriving to see why her older brother hadn't picked up when Dale called. Alvirez rubbed his temples and tried not to think of the scene she was walking into. But he had to; it was his job. She drew in a quick audible breathe and let out another, one that was impossible to forget.

# # #


End file.
